


Letters From War

by idoltina



Series: Storybrooke Downs: Rogue Fissure [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:04:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU version of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/InitialA/pseuds/InitialA">initiala</a>’s <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/220553">Storybrooke Downs</a> series in which Liam and Regina are born twins and older siblings to Killian. After their parents’ divorce, Liam and Regina exchange a series of letters in an attempt to stay close. Killian, however, receives no letters from The Sister, and over time, his jealous streak turns bitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Finding Neverland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InitialA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InitialA/gifts).



> **Warnings:** accidental self-injury, adult language, allusions to alcoholism, allusions to sexual situations, blood, character death, domestic violence, slurs

The world comes paired in twos. Two eyes, two hands, two feet. Two arms, two legs, two lungs. People come together in twos to form ones, and for most, each addition to the world comes a single at a time, each with its own set of twos.

For Brennan and Cora Jones, their single comes in twos, a single set to form a perfect pair. And for six years, the twins -- Liam and Regina -- are alone in their two until another single comes along.

But it’s only another single after that -- a year, at best -- before the Jones’ formed one fractures and splits back into two, and with it comes the inevitable break of their set of two.

“I won’t leave Mother,” Regina insists, seven and afraid and alone in her fear.

“Mother would leave him,” Liam argues, seven and aged and alone in defense of their brother.

It’s only on the eve of their separation -- the night quiet and dark and long -- that they convene in the attic, and they spend the hours surrounded by shoeboxes and beads and glitter alike. “Does it feel like you’re going home?” Regina asks him, carefully arranging her gifts into her decorated shoebox. “To Ireland?”

“It feels like we’re running away,” Liam admits, his own box a little plainer but no less skillfully organized. “It feels like Father hopes the ocean will drown her.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Regina chastises, blinking back tears. “I’m still here, Liam, you’re _leaving_ me here.”

“You chose to stay,” Liam argues. Regina forces the lid onto the shoebox with a huff and pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin on her knees. Liam sighs and frowns, frustrated. He doesn’t want to be mad at his sister, not when it’s not her fault they’re being separated to begin with, but he’s _tired_ of arguing with her. They’re both quiet for a minute, Regina not quite meeting his eyes as she cries quietly in her own little corner of the attic, before Liam finally relents a little. “Here,” he sighs, digging in the box he’s put together for her until he finds what he’s looking for. “I wasn’t going to give you this until tomorrow, but.”

Regina finally blinks over at him, tears starting to subside, and it’s with small, delicate fingers that she reaches over to pry the beaded bracelet out of his hand. She twists the small circle between her fingers, passing over an entire rainbow of colors until she finds the four in stark black and white that spell out his name. “For me?” she asks, looking up at him with a smile.

“For you,” Liam says, scooting to sit next to her and nudging her with his shoulder. “That way you still feel like I’m with you, even with an ocean between us.”

Regina barks out a wet laugh as she slips the elastic band onto her wrist, head finding Liam’s shoulder with ease. “It’s not the same,” she says, sounding sad.

“I know,” he says softly. “But think of it this way -- if one of us has to cross the ocean to see the other, it’ll be like an adventure. With pirates.”

Regina smiles against his shoulder. “And mermaids.”

“And all sorts of things in the skies,” he adds, glancing out the attic window. “The stars will still look the same, in Ireland. Father said so.”

“But time’s all different there, isn’t it?” Regina says, more of a reminder than a question. “The sun won’t even have set here by the time you go to sleep.”

“Think of all the bedtime stories I’ll get to tell Killian,” he says, not wanting her to be sad. Mother makes her sad enough. “The ice queen, the brothers and the bridge -- Peter Pan!”

Regina doesn’t laugh like Liam expects her to, just stays quiet and leans against him for another minute or two before she finally shifts her head to look up at him. She’s crying again, but it’s the pretty cry -- the one that doesn’t make her snot, the one that makes her eyes shine ( _the one that Mother doesn’t mind so much_ , Liam’s mind supplies). “So you’re Lost Boys,” she says, and she sounds so _sad_ that Liam wants to just pack her up in a box and take her with them.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But Lost Boys know how to find their way home to their families, if they want.”

Regina blinks a little, looking a little less sad, and she sits up the rest of the way and turns to face him. “Second star to the right?” she asks, holding out her pinky in offering.

Liam smiles and links his pinky with hers. “And straight on ‘til morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

_“Write to me,” Regina makes Liam promise._

_And write Liam does._

* * * * *

That first year, the letters come every two weeks.

_Ireland is wet._

_Mother is letting me take riding lessons._

_Little brother’s running around so fast now that I keep thinking he’s going to fall down the stairs._

_My hair is getting long._

_Father sleeps more._

_I’ve read nearly every book in the library at school._

_Is it wrong that I don’t miss Mother much?_

_The bracelet you made me doesn’t fit anymore. I had to change the band._

_Father says it’s too expensive to fly out and see you._

_I miss you._

_I miss you more._

And then, after a year of being apart, Liam gets a letter with only one sentence.

_Mother is getting married._

Two years later, he sends nearly an identical one back.

* * * * *

Killian has a sister he doesn’t remember. They’d left the States when he was just a babe -- he and Liam and Da -- left behind a sister and a mother and a life Killian never really had a chance to live. Ireland is home to him -- it always has been -- and Mam, well. Mam is not the woman Liam speaks of -- dark hair and red lips and cold eyes. Mam is hair lit aflame and green eyes and a smirk that drives Da daft. They’re family -- they have been since even before Da married her, when Killian was four, but there are days when Liam doesn’t entirely feel part of it.

There are days when the post arrives with a letter for Liam, stamped and colorful and foreign. Those are the days when Liam shuts himself up in his room after school to read them in private. Those are the days when he says scarce two words put together over dinner. Those are the days when Da opens up the cabinet for a drink or two, days Killian learns to avoid him. Those are the days when Liam’s bedtime story will be that of Peter Pan, of a pirate captain and terrible mermaids and a band of lost boys.

Those are the nights when Liam cries himself to sleep, and the mornings that follow are ones where Killian absolutely doesn’t mention it.

Killian grows to hate the letters. He knows they’re from The Sister, and that she’s done nothing wrong, but Liam _misses_ her something awful, and with each letter comes the expectation that Killian’s brother doesn’t feel like part of their family.

It feels like The Sister steals Liam from him.

When Killian is six, a letter arrives that leaves Liam fuming. He only catches fragments of the argument through the wall -- _“It’s out of the question.”_ \-- _“Her stepfather died, Father!”_ \-- _“I will not let you near that woman again.”_ \-- _“She’s my sister!”_ \-- but the raised voices between Liam and Da that night are enough to make Killian’s hatred for the letters _burn_.

After that, the letters stop coming.

* * * * *

Their parents die when Killian is ten, and in spite of every wayward aunt or cousin or some other distant relation sticking their noses in where they don’t belong, Killian very much feels -- _knows_ that Liam is the only family he’s got left. Liam is the one who holds Killian when he cries. Liam is the one who keeps it together. Liam is the one who arranges the funeral. Liam is the one who makes sure Killian still gets to school and stays out of trouble. Liam is the one who works, and Liam is the one who puts food on the table at night.

Liam is the one who _shows up_ , and Killian refuses to be parted from him.

But two months after their parents pass away, a letter arrives.

Killian wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t gotten up in the middle of the night for some water and happened upon Liam sitting at the kitchen table, clinging to the edges of a piece of paper like a man starved. There are dark circles under his eyes and tears staining his cheeks, and it strikes Killian, in that moment, how much _older_ he looks since their parents -- well, since they’ve gone.

Lost Boys aren’t supposed to grow up.

“‘s that from The Sister?” Killian mumbles tiredly, turning his back to Liam as he bumbles around in the cupboards for a glass.

Liam takes a moment to answer. “Yes,” he answers, voice sounding rough. “Mother wouldn’t let her write to me for a while. She sent this one through her boyfriend when she heard about Father.”

Killian scowls a little as he pours himself some water, glad his brother can’t see his face. “How’d she even manage to find out in the first place?”

“Overheard Mother talking about it,” Liam mutters, sounding distracted.

Killian glances over his shoulder and watches as Liam reads, brow furrowing deeper the longer he sits in silence. He looks… troubled by whatever it is that The Sister’s written, and for all that the woman Liam still sometimes calls Mother seems to be rather unpleasant, Killian cannot imagine that the life of a sixteen year old girl in the States is really all that terrible in comparison. She’s still got a parent, at least, doesn’t have to fight for a roof over her head and food on her table. She didn’t have to abandon her education to support a younger sibling. She didn’t even bother to fly across the Atlantic for the service or the wake, though again, Killian supposes that her mother has something to do with that.

 _Really_ , Killian thinks, _she can’t be suffering all that much_.

It’s with a half empty glass and an annoyance in his bones that Killian crosses the kitchen to pat his brother on the shoulder. “Don’t stay up too much later, yeah?” he reminds Liam. “They’ll have your head at work in the morning if you’re late or clumsy.”

“‘s not your concern, Little Brother,” Liam answers, almost automatically, and it’s without so much as a spare glance in Killian’s direction that Liam turns the letter to the next page. It’s a long letter, Killian can see, pages upon pages of neat, pretty scrawl in blue ink, and not for the first time, Killian fights the urge to watch them burn.

* * * * *

The letters are far and few between for the next two years -- secret, illicit things that The Sister apparently takes great risk to send and Liam takes into his bedroom to read. It’s a bit like it was before Da and Mam died, the letters inflicting Liam with the same sort of silent disease. He doesn’t tell Killian bedtime stories anymore -- Killian’s getting much too old for that; he’s nearly _twelve_ , after all. But the ritual gets replaced by another, and those are the nights when they have a cup of calming tea before bed and stare up at the stars, Liam’s hands shaking around his cup. They don’t say _good night_ anymore, don’t bother with _sleep tight_ or _pleasant dreams_. Now, they part with a familiar exchange, ghosts of their childhood lingering all the same.

“Second star to the right?” Killian murmurs sleepily.

“And straight on ‘til morning,” Liam always answers, a hint of longing in his voice.

Those nights, Liam starts crying himself to sleep again.

* * * * *

A letter arrives the summer after Liam turns eighteen, and Killian is the one to check the post. He recognizes the handwriting before he sees the return address or notices the international stamps, but the mere sight of that infuriating blue ink is enough to have his skin itching with rage. And he shouldn’t -- Killian _knows_ he shouldn’t -- but the temptation is too great to resist, and it’s with sticky, eager fingers that he rips the envelope open.

There’s a letter inside -- another long one, he sees -- but stapled to the front is a small index card, stained with some sort of beverage and covered in hurried, untidy scrawl.

 _I’m free_.

He doesn’t get any farther than that before Liam catches him, and it’s the first time in all twelve years of his life that Killian really feels the brunt of his brother’s rage. “That’s _mine_ ,” he snaps angrily, snatching the letter from Killian’s hands. “You don’t touch other people’s property without their permission, remember? You don’t open someone else’s letters. You don’t touch the shoebox under my bed --”

“What’s she going on about?” Killian asks, ignoring the reprimands. “She’s eighteen now, like you, of course she’s free.”

“None of your business,” Liam says shortly, fist curling tight around the letter. “Go upstairs.”

“ _Why_?” Killian snaps back, folding his arms over his chest. “So you can just get upset by reading another letter from that stupid cunt who never bothered to --”

The back of Liam’s hand hits Killian’s face so hard he’s fairly certain it’ll bruise.

“Do not,” Liam bites out, voice dangerously low, “ever use language like that again, do you understand me?”

Killian gingerly touches his face, glaring at his brother all the while. “Don’t talk about _her_ like that, you mean.”

Liam flexes his fingers, obviously still angry, but there’s a touch of remorse in his eyes. _Good_ , Killian thinks. _He should feel sorry for choosing her over me_. “Upstairs,” Liam says again, the edge in his voice gone, now. “I’ll call you down for supper later and we can talk about your punishment.”

 _The Sister_ , Killian thinks bitterly as he stomps his way up the stairs, _is plenty punishment enough_.

* * * * *

Killian is fourteen -- surly and unfocused and tempted to skip school -- when a letter from the States arrives again. It’s not the first, since the stupid “freedom” letter, but it’s the nicest looking one by far. The ink is black and swirly and the envelope is clean and bordered with a glinting sparkle. He doesn’t open it -- he knows better, now, than to test Liam when these stupid things arrive -- but his curiosity burns against the hatred in his bones, and he can’t help the way he fidgets over dinner as Liam opens it. “What’s the occasion?” Killian asks around a mouthful of food.

“Chew and swallow, Little Brother, you’re not a heathen,” Liam reprimands automatically. He’s quiet for another moment, focused on the contents of the envelope, and it takes another moment longer for Killian to realize that the usual weighted wetness in Liam’s eyes at The Sister’s letters is suspiciously absent. Instead, it’s replaced by the barest of smiles, and there is such _longing_ in Liam’s eyes that it sets Killian on edge. “She’s getting married,” Liam finally answers.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Liam’s… _happy_ for her.

Killian pushes down his own jealousy in favor of feeding his curiosity. “So what’s that, then, an invitation?”

“Aye,” Liam affirms, still not looking at him. “Seems to be a small affair, since she’s not speaking to Mother, but she wants us there all the same.”

A forkful of potatoes falls off of Killian’s fork onto his plate. “ _Us_?”

It’s that which makes Liam put the letter down, eyebrows arched as he looks up at Killian. “Aye,” he says again. “You’re her brother, too, you know.”

Killian drops his fork with a clatter and sits back in his chair, scowling. “She doesn’t write to _me_ ,” he points out, unable to help sounding bitter. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“And you don’t really know her,” Liam argues, sounding surprisingly gentle. “It’s really not her fault she hasn’t had the chance to know you.”

“And what if I don’t want to know her?” Killian spits back, knowing he sounds childish but not really able to bring himself to care all that much.

Any traces of the smile on Liam’s face disappears, at that, the weighted wetness finally making an appearance in his eyes. He swallows audibly and looks away, but he doesn’t move from his chair. “Then that’s your choice, Little Brother,” Liam says quietly. “It’s not mine. We can’t afford to go to the States right now, but I’m going to send her something all the same, if that’s alright by you.”

“Do what you want,” Killian replies, pushing away from the table and carrying his half-full plate to the sink. He finds he’s lost his appetite. “She’s your sister, not mine.”

* * * * *

Killian is seventeen when he sneaks into the house at near two in the morning. He’d left a hastily scribbled note for his brother before heading out earlier -- _out with Molly, be back later_ \-- so Killian can’t imagine Liam will want to skin him alive for being out so late. Still, he’s quiet as he shuts the front door behind him and clicks the lock shut, quiet as he navigates creaky floorboards in the dark and heads for the bottom of the stairs.

He’s startled when he sees the light on in the kitchen, but it’s not until he creeps closer that he can hear the soft, lyrical cadence of Liam’s voice. He must be on the phone, Killian figures, and as much as he doesn’t particularly care about interrupting, he doesn’t enter the kitchen out of a sense of self-preservation. He can eavesdrop on Liam’s conversation just fine from outside the entryway, and though he’s loathe to admit it, Killian’s more than curious to find out who his brother’s talking to at this hour.

It’s not until he hears Liam ask, “But everything’s alright, yeah? Ten fingers, ten toes?” that Killian’s able to put the pieces together.

The Sister.

He’s talking to The Sister, he must be because he’d gotten a letter from her over Christmas last year informing him that she was expecting, and Liam’s been oddly concerned about the whole thing ever since. If they’re going to the trouble of making an international call, the babe must have been recently born, then, especially give Liam’s prying questions. Killian’s found that he’s largely indifferent to the whole affair, honestly. It’s not as though Killian’s the one becoming an uncle, not really. He’s left Liam to fuss over The Sister for the last few months, choosing instead to spend his time with Molly and her horses. And tonight, well.

Tonight they’d been a bit too preoccupied to care about the horses.

Killian bites back a grin just as he hears the click of Liam hanging up the phone, and it’s only then that he resigns himself to being caught. He swings around the edge of the entryway and leans against the frame with a sigh, arms folded over his chest. “So you’re an uncle then, are you?”

Liam starts a little but recovers quickly, expression a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “Aye,” he confirms. “It’s a boy. She named him Henry.”

“Henry,” Killian echoes, the name feeling oddly familiar on his tongue. “Isn’t that --” His face falls when the realization dawns on him, and he’s unsuccessful at masking his incredulity and disappointment. “She named him after her stepfather?”

There’s something all too knowing in Liam’s eyes as he takes a step forward. “Killian --”

“Don’t,” Killian snaps, pushing himself off of the frame. “I suppose you’re going to send them something.”

It’s Liam whose face falls, now, disappointment reflected back at Killian. “Of course I am. He’s our nephew.”

“ _Your_ nephew,” Killian says. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I really don’t want anything to do with her. Same goes for her brat.”

“That’s not fair,” Liam argues, anger creeping into the edges of his voice. “Henry’s just a babe, alright? He’s innocent in all of this.”

“Yeah, well, so was I,” Killian remarks bitterly. “Look how I turned out.”

Liam visibly deflates at that, shoulders falling as his eyes betray his exhaustion. “It’s two in the mornin’,” he says around a yawn. “I really don’t want to be fightin’ with you.”

“So don’t,” Killian says indifferently. “Just don’t sign my name on the card.”

* * * * *

There’s a birth announcement in the mail less than a month later, accompanied by what Killian supposes is a rather darling picture of The Sister’s little family. The babe looks a bit like his father, chestnut hair and soft features. But The Sister looks more like Killian than he would have ever bargained for, with dark raven hair and the same arc in her jaw, and it makes something twists painfully inside of him.

It’s the first time he’s ever seen a photograph of her.

Father had never really kept any around, and anything The Sister had sent to Liam stayed tucked away in the shoebox under Liam’s bed. Killian had never asked to see the pictures, and Liam had never offered.

But this -- this one Liam shares, because he’s still got some stupid idea in his head that Killian will come around to the idea of being an uncle. The babe doesn’t do much by the way of tugging at Killian’s heartstrings, honestly, but The Sister?

The Sister grips his heart like an iron vice, and it takes more whiskey than he’s proud of to get her to let go.

* * * * *

His fingers are curled around a glass of whiskey for the countless time since Liam and Milah -- since they -- since Killian’s been alone -- when the phone rings. The blue-green light is too bright, the ring piercing as it echoes through the dark, empty apartment, and Killian is far too lost in his drink to even think about looking at the caller ID. “‘lo?” he mumbles, half expecting it to be Aunt Millie checking up on him.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, a delay in heavy breathing before the person on the other end clears their throat. “Killian?” a woman asks, voice sounding unaffected. American, he thinks. “Killian Jones?”

“Depends on who wants to know,” he answers, swirling the liquid in his glass as he props his legs up on the kitchen table.

Another breath, an inhale this time -- whoever it is sounds nervous -- before the woman speaks again. “My name is Regina Mills,” she says. “I’m your sister.”

The glass of whiskey slips from Killian’s fingers and shatters on the kitchen floor.

He’s vaguely aware that his own breathing’s gone a bit odd, now, vaguely aware that his hand is shaking even as he grips the phone tight. His tongue feels thick and leadened in his mouth, tacky and clumsy like cotton, and for all that Killian has spent the last two decades of his life away from her with _plenty_ to say, he finds that he cannot speak.

 _She_ , however, The Sister, doesn’t seem to have the same problem -- or at least not to the same degree. “I -- I know it’s late,” she says. “I wanted to wait until my son had gone to sleep before I tried to call. I heard --” She tapers off, clears her throat again, and for all that this is the first time he’s interacted with her since he was a babe, Killian can hear in her voice how much she’s fighting not to cry. “I heard about what happened,” she says, and she’s gone all soft and quiet. “To Liam.”

There’s a part of him that’s bitter -- the part of him that thinks of Milah, the part of him that resents this woman for neglecting him while she’d nurtured her relationship with Liam, the part of him that doesn’t feel like he’s ever really _met_ her, the part of him that wonders why she waited until three days after the wake to even bother to call. It’s the part of him that wants to immediately hang up the phone and change his number, the part of him that never wants to hear her voice again.

There’s a part of him that’s like a fishing hook to the gut, and Killian immediately recognizes it as fear.

He remembers the way she’d gripped his heart.

“Aye,” Killian chokes out, removing his feet from the table. “He’s gone, which means you and I don’t have much to say to one another, now, do we?”

He hangs up the phone before she can even think about responding, and when he kneels down on the kitchen floor to clean up the broken glass, his skin cuts and opens and bleeds along with his heart.

He wishes he had it in him to hate her _more_.

* * * * *

A letter arrives within the month, written in her usual tidy blue scrawl, but this time, it’s addressed to _him_.

He can’t bring himself to open it, and he comes very close to burning it.

In the end, the letter stays unopened and tucked away in Liam’s shoebox along with the others, and Killian moves into another apartment.

* * * * *

He spares a passing thought for her -- The Sister -- when he moves stateside. She was living in Maine, last he heard, but work, thankfully, doesn’t bring him anywhere close to her. He settles in the heart of horse country, instead, and promptly forgets about her.

It’s not until Killian’s been stateside for nearly two years that he even thinks about her again at all, and by the time he does, he’s already signed the paperwork for ownership of the Huntsman’s Horn Stables. He doesn’t run into her for a while, doesn’t even have a proper meeting due to the trial and all of the messy things that have come with his predecessor’s murder. He’s grateful for that, honestly, and a bit grateful that he’s managed to avoid Gold as well, considering his son’s the one on trial. Killian would rather be as far removed from the whole situation as he possibly can, wants to focus on the work and his goals. Getting involved in this mess really wouldn’t do him any favors.

And, well. He’s got enough of a mess on his hands considering he technically works with _his sister_.

He hears a few murmurs about her here and there -- catches the nickname _The Evil Queen_ and learns that she’d remarried a couple of years ago. He hadn’t even been aware that her first husband had died, honestly, realizes it must’ve happened after Milah and Liam -- after she’d called him that night. She’s Regina Hood, now, one of a handful of owners at the stables, and Killian sets his mind to treating her like he’d treat anyone else he’d work with -- with a firm, albeit fair hand.

She will not be his sister.

All in all, it takes almost three weeks before they cross paths, and when they do, he’s not expecting her at all. It’s late -- long after most of the men have gone, for the day -- when she arrives at the Horn, and the cats perk up considerably when there’s a knock at the front door. He’s a bit shell-shocked at the sight of her, to be honest, this elusive creature who’d done too little, too late, and his mind lingers on the unimportant details. She’s come straight from work, it looks like, business attire wrinkled a little in places, but her blazer’s undone and she’s wearing boots that are more sensible for the environment. There’s a flash of color on her wrist -- a bracelet made of plastic beads, he thinks, a gift from a child perhaps. It’s an odd mishmash of things, unfitting for her, and the thought is so uncharacteristically lived in of him that it sparks Liam’s voice. _‘Told you,’_ Liam says, sounding every bit like the insufferable know-it-all he always was. _‘She’s your sister.’_

 _‘Quiet,’_ Killian snaps back silently, inhaling sharply to refocus his attention on the woman standing awkwardly at his front door. She hasn’t so much as breathed one word so far, but the look in her eyes is all too familiar. It’s the same look Liam had when her letters would arrive, weighted and wet and longing, and it doesn’t take much for Killian to realize that she’s come here looking for him to be her brother.

To be _Liam_.

Fucking hell, insufferable, hopeful eejits, the pair of them.

“Mrs. Hood,” he greets coolly, leaning against the door frame and folding his arms over his chest as Si and Am weave between his legs.

She doesn’t bother to mask her disappointment at the address, but she doesn’t try to push him, either. “Mr. Jones,” she returns, voice cracking slightly. “I was -- I came to introduce myself, but it seems you think you already know me.”

Killian works his jaw in annoyance. “I know as much as I need to, ma’am,” he grits out, forcing a smile.

It’s her turn to work her jaw, now, clearly not expecting quite the level of hostility he’s doling out, and even though he finds himself feeling a bit bad about it, he refuses to be _warm_ toward her. She recovers reasonably quickly, though, schooling her features into something a bit more neutral, if a bit tight around the edges, and both her voice and her smile are full of false civility. “Well,” she says, “I’m happy to provide some insight, should that change.” There’s something almost… tired in the way she says it, like they’ve had this argument a thousand times before, and for a moment, Killian finds himself a bit mesmerized by her. It’s like looking into some sort of damned, twisted mirror, an odd blending of his features and Liam’s expressions, and _bloody hell_.

She is his _sister_.

 _No_.

“I don’t imagine it will,” he says, the words out of his mouth before he can even think them through. He can’t seem to get his brain in working order, though, words sharp and biting and out in the open before he can manage to get his foot in his mouth. “Good night, Mrs. Hood.”

She barely manages to get out a faint _good night_ before he’s shut the door in her face, and he leans against it with such weight that he feels as though he may very well fall over, anyway. His forehead meets wood as he closes his eyes and exhales heavily, feeling a familiar gutting sensation at his core. His fingers flex anxiously against the door for a moment before relaxing, and when he opens his eyes to look down at the floor, he finds both cats looking up at him with clear judgement in their eyes.

 _‘You’re an ass,’_ Liam says bluntly.

 _‘Must run in the family,’_ Killian quips back.

Still, curiosity burns against the stabbing sensation in his gut, and he can’t help but move to the living room window and pull back the curtain just enough to peer out into the driveway. He can’t see much, not when it’s this dark, but the light from the porch is enough to allow him to see her sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, hands gripping the steering wheel tight.

She’s crying.

Well, fuck.

 _‘Ass,’_ Liam says again, and Killian feels the phantom ghost of his brother’s hand against his face.

The cats meow as if on cue.

Alright, he doesn’t have to be quite so hostile. Polite. Civil. Cordial, even. He can manage those things. He’s done it before, with aunts and cousins and coworkers alike. He can certainly do the same with his estranged sister. He doesn’t have to be warm. He doesn’t have to be kind.

He doesn’t have to open his heart to her.

(Not yet.)

* * * * *

It’s nearly a month after the accident -- a month after Killian’s heart had cracked open and bled over Emma -- that he relays the message about the letter to her, and the first thing he does when he gets home that night is pull down the boxes from the attic. It doesn’t take him all that long to locate the smaller box he’s looking for; the boxes in the attic are only a small pile of things he’d brought with him from Ireland that he hadn’t been able to rid himself of just yet. But he doesn’t open the smaller box, not yet, knows he doesn’t have the permission he seeks.

It’s the first time in the year that he’s been working and living here that he’s called _her_ \-- called _Regina_ for anything even remotely unrelated to work, and he can tell by the hesitation in her voice that his invitation to come over is not one she’d been expecting.

They’re both quiet when she arrives, but the cats very well aren’t as they weave around Regina’s legs and leave traces of fur on her jeans, meowing all the while. They’re fond of her, Killian can tell, and every bitter part of him that wants to resent Regina for taking even more from him starts to wither and die. It’s not until they’re crossing the threshold into the kitchen that either of them speaks, and even then, Killian only offers to make her a cup of tea as she settles into one of the chairs.

When he sets the mug down at her, she’s staring at the shoebox he’d placed on the center of the table.

She looks as though she’s seen a ghost.

“I didn’t know you had that,” she says thickly.

“Aye,” he says, settling down into the chair adjacent to her. “One of the only things of his I kept, after he -- after he died. It was always off-limits to me.”

She’s careful in the way she looks at him, fingers twisting her lap like she wants to reach out and touch the box. “You don’t know what’s inside?”

Killian offers her a half-shrug and settles against the back of his chair. “Your letters, mostly, I think,” he says, scratching awkwardly at the back of his head. “Some photographs. Maybe a few other things. It never really felt right to open it, after he died.”

“And yet you kept it for a decade after,” she breathes. “Why?”

Killian shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but there’s a gentle bump against his legs -- encouragement from the cats, no doubt -- that prompts him to keep going. “Will said you visited me in the hospital, last month,” he says instead, changing the subject a bit. “Before you took Henry home. Before I woke up. Belle told me you were here the night I -- well, that night I was a right mess, honestly. She said you were here with the rest of them.”

It’s Regina’s turn to lean back in her chair, her study of him careful. After a moment, she takes a breath and asks, “Did Mrs. Gold also tell you that I wasn’t much help that night because she had to help me through a panic attack?”

Killian deflates a little, feeling like the air’s been punched out of his chest. “No,” he says quietly. “She didn’t.” A beat, and then, “Why did you come?”

She very nearly smiles at that, Killian can tell by the way her expression turns a little wistful. “I think you _know_ why I came, Killian,” she says. “The question is, why am I here now? And what does Liam have to do with this?”

He meets her eyes for a moment before shifting his gaze to the box, wishing he could work his jaw like normal. It feels a bit like grave robbing a bit, this, like he’s disrupting the peace with an olive branch. But the cats are rubbing against his legs and Liam’s voice is gone and his sister is _right here_ , and it takes everything in Killian to force the next words out of his mouth. “After what happened to me last month,” he says haltingly, jaw feeling a bit sore for a moment. “After what happened to your boy, I thought -- I thought I might take you up on your offer,” he confesses, knowing he sounds anything but casual. “I thought you could give me a little insight into things. I thought this might be a good place to start.”

When he finally meets her eyes again, there’s something almost broken in the way she smiles at him. It tugs at phantom strings that have long been unattached to anything, coils around his heart in the gentlest of ways and fills in the cracks where he’s bled himself dry. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she answers him, and Killian finds he cannot breathe. “I think I can do that,” she says.

His chest feels tight as she reaches for the box, lungs burning with ache as she pries the lid off and sets it aside. The cats immediately claim the lid as their own, stupid, territorial beasts that they are, but their antics are enough to force breath back into his lungs and refocus his attention back on his sister. She’s unfolding one of the letters -- the first, Killian would assume -- and doesn’t bother concealing her tears. She looks unbearably young in this moment, so much like the first photograph he’d ever seen of her, and the ghost of Liam’s longing breathes into Killian’s bleeding heart. She sniffs a little, hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, and it’s only then that a flash of color catches Killian’s eyes. It’s the same bracelet he’s seen her wear a dozen times, clunky and childish in its construction, but it’s only now that he sees beyond the rainbow of colors to the stark black and white among them.

 _Liam_.

Killian’s slipping his hand into hers before she can even set it back on the table, thumb running over the plastic beads, and in spite of how much it physically pains him to do so right now, he does the only thing he can do: he smiles at his sister.

She’s gentle in the way she squeezes his hand, her touch familiar and every bit the big sister he thinks she’s longed to be -- the sister he thinks he might finally be ready for her to be.

“ _Dear Liam_ ,” she says, and together, they begin.


End file.
